Across the wrecked mounds of the ancient groves
In the bitter stains of enraged revenge,
The Ents’ threatening shadows stalked in droves
To scourge Saruman’s evil to infringe.
Methadras rose above the Mage’s flames,
The ruins of the Isen’s restrained floods:
The snowy regal peak fathomed the frames
Which would taint the gloaming with molten bloods!
The wood-shepherds arose in common spite
For the fame of the forests couldn’t fade,
Nature’s pride was offended and contrite
By the crime of the fire and the blade!
And yet upon the shattered branches, the thorns:
The desolate souls of the ruined trees,
Nature stands and battles for those she mourns
As the Ents cry their rage on the wild breeze!
As their harsh murmurs drench the air with fear
The soil shivers to their restless descents,
Throughout the ages and beyond frontiers
It will be called “The last march of the Ents!”